His To Shatter (14 page)

“Good morning, Madison,” he said, offering
his arm to me once more.

“Good morning, Girard,” I replied, taking his
arm with pleasure. If anyone else were to attempt such a gesture,
it would have seemed foolish and pretentious. But nothing this man
did came across as anything other than the exact right action for
the moment. He had an air of such easy authority, such utter
control over himself and his surroundings, that you couldn’t help
but trust him.

“Are those your friends?” he asked politely,
glancing up at the balcony.

I looked up and saw Dara and Ashlee’s faces
trained eagerly on us down below. I scowled up at them, and tried
to wave them away. But they were too busy gawking unabashedly—it
wouldn’t have surprised me to see that they had brought popcorn for
the occasion.

“You show our Madison a good time,” Dara said
chidingly to Girard.

“But not too good,” Ashlee put in, waving her
finger at us.

“Are you finished?” I said, blushing. My
friends giggled and ducked back inside, and Girard let out a little
chuckle.

“They care about you a great deal,” he said
as we began to walk away from my loft.

“It’s true,” I said, letting him lead the
way. “We really do watch out for each other.”

“You don’t strike me as a girl who needs
watching out for,” Girard said.

“No?” I asked, slightly put-out. I’d like to
think of myself as a girl that he could watch out for, if it suited
him.

“No,” he said, “But that doesn’t mean that
you couldn’t benefit from it.”

“I’m sure that I could. Benefit from it, I
mean,” I said as bravely as I could. “A little guidance, you know.
I’m still pretty young, after all.”

“How old are you, Madison?” Girard asked.

“Twenty three,” I responded.

“Twenty three...” he repeated, “By the time I
was twenty three I’d been shipped off to Bosnia.”

“Oh...” I said. Somehow, that made me feel
even younger than I was. I’d had a difficult childhood, to be sure,
with an abusive father and a spineless mother—but I got the sense
that Girard knew suffering a lot more intimately than I did. “Did
you always want to be in the Foreign Legion?” I asked, trying to
keep the conversation going.

Girard smiled faintly, as if remembering
something sweet. “No,” he said, “No, I had other plans. Other
ambitions.”

“Can I ask what they were?” I said.

“You can ask me anything,” Girard said,
placing his hand on mine where it rested on his sleeve. “I just
hope you won’t think it foolish.”

“I seriously doubt that I will,” I said.

“Very well,” Girard said, drawing in a deep
breath, “The truth is that, as a boy, I wanted to become a concert
pianist.”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk,
stunned. That was certainly not what I had expected him to say. On
top of everything else, this man was an artist? “Do you play?” I
asked.

“Oh, yes,” Girard smiled, “Very well, I am
told.”

“What stopped you from pursuing your dream?”
I asked.

“Life has a way of interfering with dreams,”
Girard said sadly, “As it did with mine. I was nineteen years old
when my father was diagnosed with cancer. I was halfway through my
time at conservatory, where I was studying classical piano on a
full scholarship. But my mother needed help, financially. And
struggling musicians aren’t exactly the most helpful sons in the
world, in that respect. So, I dropped out of conservatory and
enlisted. The wages I earned from my service, and the bonuses I
received along the way, went right back to my parents. We spent a
fortune on treatment for my father, but even all the money in the
world won’t keep a man alive when he’s meant to pass on.

When my father died, I had already been in
the military for three years. They needed me there, in command, and
I needed to keep making enough money to support my mother. So I
stayed, and did tours all around the world. The Congo, Rwanda,
Kosovo...”

“But you left eventually,” I said. “Why?”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Girard said, “I was
injured.”

“Oh my god,” I said, tightening my grip on
his arm unconsciously, “I’m so sorry, Girard.”

“It’s OK now,” he said. “I was shot in
Sarajevo while tending to a fallen civilian. A young girl. Some
insurgents came upon us as I was helping her. They killed her
first, and forced me to watch...at the time I couldn’t tell whether
I had gotten off easy with just a bullet wound, or if it would have
been better if they finished me.”

My throat thickened into a tearful knot as I
watched Girard’s face cloud over. I couldn’t imagine the horrors he
must have seen in those war torn places. It seemed such a tragedy
that so wonderful a man should have been subjected to all that. I
found myself wishing that I could have been there, somehow. That I
could have comforted him, nursed him back to health when he came
home.

“But, yes, I was discharged with full honors.
The money I had saved up from my wages I invested in the dot com
market. And one thing led to another...” he waved his hand,
indicating a whole slew of investments and financial genius that I
couldn’t begin to comprehend. “And here we are,” he said, a smile
on his face.

“Here we are,” I agreed. “And may I ask where
we’re going?”

“All over,” Girard said, “I want you to see
Paris at its finest.”

* * * * *

Chapter Twelve

* * * * *

And that is exactly what he showed me. We
spent hours traipsing around the city, arm in arm. Though I’d
explored the place with my friends all summer, it felt like a
completely different city with Girard leading me. He stayed well
away from any tourist traps, and instead showed me the nooks and
crannies of the city that he loved the best. We tripped along the
sidewalks, stopping to peer into store windows and shops. In his
company, every little thing we came upon felt absolutely
magical.

We came to a stop outside a particularly
beautiful bookshop, and I simply had to stop and stare. I had been
an avid reader all my life, having first learned to escape into
books when my parents’ fighting became too much to bear. I bore
down upon the shop’s selection of literature, wanting to scoop it
all up into my arms at once. My eyes fell upon a beautiful tome in
the corner of an outdoor rack. Gingerly, I took the book in my
hands and marveled. It was an old edition of
War and Peace
,
leather-bound and gorgeous. Reverently, I opened the book and
brought it toward my face. I breathed in the old book smell, taking
the wonderful scent deep into my lungs. There was no better smell
in the world, I was sure. I caught a look at Girard out of the
corner of my eye as I smelled the pages, and suddenly felt
silly.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I must look like a
lunatic.”

“No,” Girard said, “I was just thinking that
I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life.”

“I...Oh...” I sputtered, “Thank you. I just
love this novel.”

“Would you like it? That copy, I mean?”

“It must be terribly expensive. It’s an old
edition.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Girard said. And
with that, he took the book from my hands and marched toward the
front counter, paying the storekeeper promptly. He returned to me
and handed over the book, bounded in brown paper and tied with
string. I stared up at him, moved by his generosity.

“I’ll treasure it,” I said softly, hugging
the book to my chest.

“I hope you will,” he said. “Come. Let’s keep
going.”

We made our way through museums, more shops,
and every park we came upon as the sun rose higher and higher into
the sky. At midday, Girard announced that he had developed quite
the appetite, and asked whether I might enjoy a picnic beside the
Eiffel Tower.

“Are you kidding?” I’d said, rather
inelegantly, but he’d gotten the gist.

We stopped at a little food shop to gather
some supplies. The array of smells as we walked through the doors
was intoxicating. I hadn’t realized up until that moment just how
hungry I really was. We made our way through row after row of
delicacies, and Girard snatched up item after item as we went
along. I felt drunk on the heavy scents of a hundred fine cheeses,
pungent olive oil, and savory spices. The food in Paris had spoiled
me rotten. I didn’t know how I would ever go back to one-dollar
slices of pizza from food trucks in New York.

With arms full of food stuffs, Girard led us
toward the grass that stretched out before the Eiffel Tower. I made
myself comfortable as he spread out the goods. He produced a long,
crispy baguette, a wedge of brie, a little pot of honey, three
green apples that he sliced with the pocket knife I didn’t know
he’d been carrying, a jar of black olives, and—

“Is that caviar?” I asked, amazed.

“Yes,” he answered simply, “Don’t you like
caviar?”

“We didn’t really have much caviar in the
house, when I was growing up,” I laughed. “It was mostly Doritos
and Ben and Jerry’s.”

“Would you like to try some?” he asked.

“Well...Sure,” I said, hesitant about putting
fish eggs in my mouth.

Girard spooned a little of the stuff onto a
thin cracker and held it out to me. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I
took the proffered bite from his hand, savoring the gesture as much
as anything else. The caviar was surprisingly salty in my mouth,
and surprisingly delicious. I smiled at Girard as he helped himself
to our bounty.

“There are so many things you can teach me,”
I said happily.

“Oh, Madison,” he smiled, “You don’t know the
half of it.”

I blushed mightily, thinking about all the
instruction that I’d like Girard to bestow upon me. And I could
tell from the way he smiled that his mind was in the same place as
mine. I hoped that he wouldn’t be put off by my lack of experience
with men. Suddenly, I found myself worrying that I might not be
sophisticated enough for him, as far as sex was concerned. Ashamed
as I was to admit it, I really didn’t even know what I wanted out
of sex, or what I liked about it. I’d never really been with a man,
just a pimply boy and someone I had been too drunk to remember the
next morning. With Girard, I felt like a virgin again.

We happily partook of all the food that
Girard had provided, filling our bellies and sating our hungers. It
wasn’t until we had torn through most of the provisions that I
realized how low the sung had sunk once more. We had been out and
about all day together, just enjoying the other’s company. I had
never been on a date like this before, one where I wasn’t secretly
counting down the minutes until I could be alone again. With
Girard, I simply didn’t want the evening to end. And maybe it
didn’t have to.

“Where is your apartment, Girard?” I asked,
as casually as I could.

He smiled at me, stretching out on his side
in the grass. “Not too far, actually. A few blocks from the
tower.”

“Prime location,” I said, trying not to sound
as awkward as I felt.

“Would you like to see it?” Girard asked.

“Um...Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I would.”

“Lovely,” Girard said, beginning to gather up
our things. We disposed of our trash and dusted the grass off our
clothing. Arm in arm once more, we made our way the short distance
to Girard’s home.

I could feel a pulsing need begin to build in
my belly, something that I had never felt before. My cells seemed
to be charged with an unfamiliar energy. I felt hungry, even though
we’d just eaten. I realized, as we neared Girard’s apartment, that
it wasn’t food I was hungry for. It was him—this mysterious man who
had materialized into my life out of nowhere. This man who had
saved me more than once, opened the world to me without even
knowing it. This man whose apartment I was about to walk into. And
after that...Well, who could say?

We came to a stop in front of a painfully
charming old townhouse a stone’s throw away from the park. I gaped
at the fine details in the facade, the beautiful brick and mortar
elegance of it all.

“This is yours?” I asked.

“Yes,” Girard said, fitting his key into the
lock. “More of a house than an apartment, I know.”

“I’d say.”

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Very much,” I said, “It’s probably the most
beautiful home I’ve ever seen.”

“Wait until you see the inside,” he smiled,
and pushed open the front door.

I stepped over the threshold after him and
blinked against the dim light. Girard flipped on the foyer light
and immediately the home was bathed in a warm glow. I felt my eyes
grow wide as I took in the ornate beauty of Girard’s abode. I would
have expected such a wealthy man to go for the high-tech, sleek
look in his home, but not Girard. He had gone for elegance and
class, rather than flashy, gauche gadgets. The wood floors were a
beautiful shade of cherry, as were the tall bookcases that lined
every other wall. A crystal chandelier hung down into the foyer,
casting dappled light all over the room. And the artwork...that was
the most amazing part of all.

On every stretch of blank wall hung the most
beautiful paintings I’d ever seen up close. Impressionist,
pointillist, surrealist, Girard had it all. I was amazed at how
well the pieces worked together, how perfectly they cohered. But as
well chosen and beautiful as they were, something about them made
me want to cry. I realized, looking at one and then the next, that
they were all united by a sense of sorrow that shone through them.
It hurt to know that this pain is what resonated with Girard above
all else. I wondered, fleetingly, what depths of sadness this
wonderful man had known. It didn’t seem fair that someone as kind
as Girard should ever have to know doubt, or fear, or pain.

Without realizing I was doing it, I grabbed
for his hand and squeezed tightly. He pulled me toward him, and I
suddenly found myself pressed against the front of his body. I
looked up into those soulful eyes, those deep pools that I’d be
happy to drown in, and I earnestly raised my lips to his. Our
mouths met hard, opening to each other, as I felt Girard’s arms
wrap themselves around my body. I threw my arms over his shoulders,
standing on my toes to better reach him. As I felt his tongue flick
tantalizingly against mine, a persistent pressure nudged against my
belly. I realized suddenly that Girard was hard for me. For
me
. A sort-of pretty American girl ten years his junior. I
didn’t know what I’d done to deserve any of it, but I certainly
wasn’t going to let it slip away without making the most of it.